


The Human Heart

by Melaradark



Category: Wing Commander - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3614943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melaradark/pseuds/Melaradark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Kilrathi Empire is in a bitter war with the Human Confederation...and slowly but surely, they are winning. The Human Heart follows two pilots from their first meeting to the deepest and most desperate battles of the war, and humanity's last stand against annihilation. Solidly left-of-canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I loved the Wing Commander series when it first came out. My very first tentative forays into fan fiction years and years ago revolved around Wing Commander, among others. Some of the plot points of the stories I wrote were good but to be honest, most of the writing was crap. Hey, I was about seventeen, so what can I say?
> 
> So, I decided to do a revisiting, and this fiction is the result. A few things before I get started:
> 
> This story is very, very, VERY loosely based on the actual Wing Commander series. Honestly, beyond a few names and basic static elements, this story has absolutely nothing to do with Wing Commander canon. So please, don’t write me explaining how something isn’t canon or isn’t even a thing in the WC universe…I know.
> 
> The static elements that will be familiar are: the human forces are still called the Confederation. The group of traitors and spies are still called the Mandarin, or the Mandarin Order. The enemy are still an empire of feline aliens called the Kilrathi.  
> However, I’m making up nuances of tech, culture, history, slang, etc. as I go. The protagonists and ships of the WC series (Blair, TCS Tiger’s Claw, etc) will NOT be in this story. All characters and ships will be original and of my creating. 
> 
> If this massive departure from canon is going to upset you, I suggest you give this story a pass.
> 
> This story will have fairly graphic depictions of violence, and strong or explicit language. If such things bother you, read no further.
> 
> Lastly, this story will have a romance in it between two women. If that is going to upset you as well, I suggest you give this story a pass. Also, if you are reading looking for shmexy lesbian love scenes or smut…you will be disappointed. I have a really bad habit of fading to black.
> 
> I also love cliffhangers, so be warned.
> 
> Now, to set the stage…
> 
> This takes place a couple of centuries from now. Humans have space travel, and are in the middle of an all-out war between our systems and colonies, and a very strong empire of aliens ruled by the Kilrathi. Slowly, but surely…the Kilrathi are winning, and driving humanity back into the Sol system. Their goal seems to be not just to take over our territories, but to eliminate the human species from existence altogether.
> 
> The Mandarin, an underground group of nameless spies, terrorists and traitors to humanity, undermine the efforts of the Confederation and its fleets, sabotaging, selling information, and aiding the Kilrathi against humanity in the hopes of power and reward.  
> A key portion of the Confederation’s defense are its deep space stations and launch platforms- enormous floating colonies in their own right- and huge battle fleets compromised of enormous transports, destroyers, cruisers, frigates, and millions of combat fighters. While battles have been fought dirt-side, the bulk of the combat front is space itself. 
> 
> This war will be won- or lost- in the cockpits of millions of fighters across known space. 
> 
> Our fate is in the hands of the pilots of those ships.
> 
> This is the story of some of those pilots.
> 
> And like most stories surrounding combat pilots and soldiers…it starts in a bar.

**The Human Heart**

It was Parry’s first leave in six weeks, and she knew it was going to be her last for a very long time. Normally, she was not a big drinker, and being something of an introvert, a raucous night at a bar was not necessarily on her list of favorite things.

However, one thing she’d learned since signing up for boot-there were certain traditions, certain chains you just didn’t break. Pilots in general, and combat pilots in particular, were a superstitious lot. If they weren’t before they arrived at Yelchin, they were by the time they departed.

One tradition was graduation. If you graduated MR, or ‘mission-ready’- especially from Yelchin- you spent the night before assignment at the bar and drank. No excuses, no exceptions. If you didn’t, it was solemnly believed you would not survive your first mission, no matter where you were deployed.

Parry was too smart to believe in superstitions, and considered this one as ridiculous as any other. At the same time, however…who wanted to tempt fate?

_That, and I’m pretty sure Jonas and the others would have hog-tied me and carried me here if I’d refused_ , she thought, as a beer was slapped down in front of her with so much force half of it slopped out onto the tabletop. Picking it up, she gave Jonas a dry look, then sniffed it suspiciously. He barked a laugh, then tsked.

“What, princess…you think I’m going to drug your skinny ass?”

Jonas was a good guy. Mostly harmless, with a bit of a bantam ego that sent him strutting about as if he were a clear foot taller and a hell of a lot better on the stick than he was.

He wasn’t a bad pilot- bad pilots didn’t make MR at Yelchin- but he was comfortably middle of his class, middle of his flight scores.

_You wouldn’t think it by the way he puffs up,_ Parry thought affectionately. _You’d think he shits bricks as gold as Killdare with the way he preens._

“What makes you think you’d have to, Jonas?” Parry asked, teasing him. The other woman at the table, already well on the way past drunk, laughed.

“How many’ve you had?” she asked, squinting at Parry as she swayed slightly back and forth in her seat.

“Far less than you, by looks,” Parry replied.

“So not nearly enough,” she giggled.

Jaime had always been a giggler. It was weird. Woman was cold enough and precise enough on the stick to have earned the name Ice, but she was a fucking giggler.

“Not nearly enough for what?” Jonas asked, confused. That was another thing-Jonas wasn’t always quick on the uptake.

“For _you_ ,” Jaime said, in a tone that suggested how obvious she thought it was. “Parry’d have to be a hell of a lot more sussed before she’d swap a dustpan for a broomstick.”

“A dustpan for a broomstick?” Rafael asked, getting back to the table. He was cradling no fewer than eight more beers- bottled ones- and was sweating. The bar was insanely crowded and hotter than blazes. There were a lot of pilots who’d graduated MR…a lot who didn’t want to tempt superstitious fate.

Rafael- or Rafe, as he was known by his friends- was a big brute of a man, with a closely shaved slick of platinum blonde hair and a perpetually squinting, slightly irritated expression on his face. He sat down, taking up half the table on his own, setting the beers down as he squinted at Jaime.

“Is that some sort of drunk euphemism for dicks and splits?”

“Jesus, Rafe, can you get any more crude?” Jaime asked with a snort. He shrugged, cracking open his first beer.

“Yeah, probably,” he said, then slapped Jonas’ hand hard as he reached for one of the bottles. “Get your own, fucker!”

“You got eight of them!”

“Yeah, and I’m going to drink every damn one! Get your fucking own!”

Jaime sipped her own drink, then gestured with it as if she were at a lectern explaining nuclear physics to the unwashed masses. “We were discussing just how in the soup our dear Parry would have to be, before she would select Jonas over any number of loverly ladies in this fine estab’ishment.”

“Jonas? Fuck, she’d have to be dead,” Rafe said, prompting an injured ‘hey!!’ from Jonas. He ignored his friend, and took a gulp of the beer he’d just opened. “Any other guy in here…? Yeah, I’m thinking she’d still have to be dead.”

“I love this conversation,” Parry said sarcastically.

“Hey, I’m on your side,” Rafe grinned, then offered his fist. “Sister power and all that, right mate?”

She ignored the fist. “Drink your beers. You can’t pass out soon enough.”

“Too right,” he said, still grinning, and downed the rest of the first one, moving on instantly to crack open a second.

“Hey, guys, seriously,” Jonas said, looking at them. “I’m being serious a moment. _Seriously._ ”

“You are seriously _drunk_ ,” Jaime said, slurring the beginning of the word almost beyond recognition.

“No, man, s _eriously_ ,” Jonas said insistently. “Tomorrow we get our assignments. We could ship out immediately. Never fucking see each other again.”

“You gonna cry?” Rafe asked.

“Fuck you man, I mean it,” Jonas said. “This is some deep shit ok? A week from now, I may be on a DS station on the front in Gamma Sector. Jaime may be…may be scaring the fuck out of some Cat in a johnny out off Burbank Station and Parry…she’ll be commanding a Wing for First Fleet, you just wait and see.”

Parry about spit the mouthful of beer she’d taken. “You have an awfully high estimate of my skills, Jonas.”

“Please, you scored a one ninety. You could fly circles around us and you know it. Point is…this is it. After tonight…everything changes.”

“He’s right,” Jaime said, and lifted her mug. “To us! May our wings be…be flappy and our guns…boom…”

Parry rolled her eyes and said the motto properly. “May our wings be swift and our shots never miss. To the Confederation!”

_“To the Confederation!”_

There was a sloppy clink as they tapped glasses and bottles together. As Jaime went to drink, she slipped off the edge of her chair and vanished beneath the table. Parry blinked and half stood up, setting her own mug down.

“Jaime?”

“…I think I’m gonna chuck…” came the weak reply.

“I got ‘er,” Jonas said, getting to his feet and helping his friend to hers before steering her on a wobbly course through the crowds and toward the restrooms. Parry watched them go, picking up her glass again as Rafe cracked open his fourth bottle of beer. As her eyes left her friends and panned briefly over crowd, she suddenly stopped, lowering her glass again.

Rafe looked at her from beneath one grizzled brow. Seeing her eyes, he turned his head and tried to pinpoint where she was looking.

Near the bar another MR was standing, her posture decidedly stiff and square, as if she expected a surprise inspection at any point. A glass sat in front of her on the bar top, and she was looking down into it-touching neither it nor the bar itself-with a curiously fixed intensity.

“Really? Out of all the MRs here ready to party, you’re looking at _her_?” Rafe asked.

“What?” Parry blinked, looking at him.

“C’mon, I saw you looking. You had the same expression my dog used to get when he thought there was bacon in the house.”

She glared at him. “I wasn’t looking like _that_.”

“You were. Dunno why. I mean, she’s ok I guess. Cute enough, but nothing special. Nothing like _Rodriguez_.”

“No one measures up to Rodriguez in your book, Rafe.”

“Damn straight, and never will. She’s…weird, too, I think.” He was looking back at the girl at the bar, who hadn’t so much as moved. “Maybe floating. What the fuck is she doing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a bug in her glass.”

“Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t you go and ask her?”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Uh, _no._ ”

“Why not? Jesus Christ, Parry, when we tagged you ‘Angel’ we meant ‘of Death’, not ‘Christmas tree’.”

“What?” She stared at him in confusion.

“Christmas tree angel. You know, because you’ve got a huge stick shoved so far up your ass it’s a wonder your tonsils aren’t getting splinters.”

“Shut up, Rafe.”

“No. Look, this may be your last night on base. Fuck, it may be your last night on the fucking planet. So quit trying to fade into the background, get drunk out of your mind, and go get yourself fucking laid.”

He took one of his remaining few beers, cracked it, and set it firmly in front of her.

“Jaime’s right. You’re a crude asshole.”

“You fucking love me. Now drink. Then get up off your ass and go talk to her.”

She gave him a challenging look and he lifted his brows, then shrugged. “All right. You have until I finish these last three beers. If you haven’t gotten off your ass and gone and talked to her by then, _I’m_ going to get up, I’m going to go over to her, and I’m going to tell her you’ve been making rude remarks about her all night and bragging to all your mates about what she’s like in bed.”

Parry blanched, horrified. “I don’t even know her!”

“Which is why you shouldn’t be saying such shitty things about her. Shame on you.”

“ _Rafe!_ ”

He gave her another pointed lift of his brows, setting aside an empty bottle and opening a new one. “Two left, princess. You’re running out of time.”

She picked up the bottle of beer he’d pushed her way, lifting it and downing half. Then she slapped it back down and shoved the remainder of it toward him as she got to her feet. “You’re such a _fucking_ scrag.”

“You can thank me tomorrow after you’ve gotten properly shagged,” he said, and lifted his own bottle in tribute as she pushed past him. “Salud.”

Parry edged her way through the crowd, mentally cursing Rafe and all his ancestry as she did so. Halfway to the bar, she switched from her furious internal dialogue to a nervous one. She’d never been good at talking to women…at least, not like this. She didn’t do bars, and she certainly didn’t do cheesy, half-drunk pick-up lines.

_You don’t have to pick her up. You don’t even have to_ talk _to her, just_ look _like you are from where Rafe is sitting_.

Though several minutes had passed since she’d first caught sight of the MR at the bar, the other woman hadn’t moved. She still stood, contemplating the glass in front of her as if it were a bomb that would be triggered by motion.

Parry managed to squeeze into a spot at the bar only a few feet away, edging closer when someone else stepped off with their order. The bartender glanced her way and lifted a brow. There was suddenly only one thing Parry wanted more than anything else in the universe.

“Glass of water please?” She had to shout to be heard over the noise. He nodded and as he filled a glass with ice, Parry licked her dry lips and half glanced at the woman standing only a foot or two away.

She was in her fatigues but like most of the MRs in the sweltering bar, she’d abandoned her jacket somewhere. Her black t-shirt was slightly damp in a patch between her shoulders, and a few errant strands of her hair were stuck with sweat to her temples and the side of her neck. The hair itself was dark, slightly longer than Parry’s but still short of her collar- reg for any pilot, male or female. She was shorter than Parry but that was expected; Parry was tall for a woman. While it was true the MR wasn’t unnaturally gorgeous or a drop dead stunner, seeing her even closer Parry knew Rafe was wrong.

_She blows the socks off every other woman in here,_ she thought.

The bartender set the glass of ice in front of her and started to fill it with water. As he did, he glanced at her, then at the motionless woman nearby.

“Don’t know what she’s doing,” he said conversationally. “She’s been standing like that for twenty goddamn minutes.”

“I’m trying to decide how superstitious I am,” the woman said suddenly, without looking around. Parry blinked.

“You’re what?” she asked, before thinking. The MR finally moved, looking over at her. It was hard to tell in the bar lights, but she thought her eyes might be green, or blue. She shrugged almost bashfully, and gestured helplessly at the glass.

“I don’t drink,” she said. “Never have. Never been tempted. So, I’m wondering…is just coming to this horrible sweaty bar enough to fulfill tradition, or do I actually have to drink this probably very nasty tasting swill as well?”

“Just being alcohol doesn’t mean it tastes bad.”

“No,” the MR agreed. “However, being a drink that my classmates ordered for me with evil grins on their faces, on the other hand…”

“Ah. I get it.”

“What do you recommend?” Parry looked at the glass. The booze was clear, which narrowed down the field. Gesturing at it she lifted a brow. When the MR nodded, she lifted the glass and took a sniff.

“It’s tequila. Not as mean as they could have been. Just drink it fast. Better that than tempting fate.”

The MR wrinkled her nose, accepting the glass back. “Well, here it goes then, I guess. Bottom’s up.”

She lifted the glass to her lips, paused, then took a deep breath and downed it in one motion. Immediately a look of disgust passed over her face and she grimaced, setting the glass back down and giving it a slight push, as if by increasing her distance to it she could erase the taste from her mouth.

Parry smiled. “You ok?”

“Apparently now I’m not going to die on my first mission. Go me. Not sure it was worth it,” she said in a strained voice. Parry laughed, then offered her glass of water.

“Here.”

The MR took the glass with a nod, then downed a healthy swig, before sighing. “Ah. Thank you. You are an angel.”

“So they tell me,” Parry replied, then offered her hand. “I’m Parry Mazurek.”

The MR took the hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Ray Caruso.”

“Ray? Short for something?”

“Rayna, but don’t ruin our brand new friendship by saying it,” Ray replied. “Thank you, Parry, for the water, but now that the Gods of Superstition have been appeased this is the last place I want to be.”

“I hear you on that,” Parry said. “I’m not huge on bars either…especially not loud and crowded ones. It was nice to meet you, Ray.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Parry.” She gave her a smile, then ducked awkwardly into the crowd. Parry watched her as she wove through the packed bodies to a distant table where a bunch of other MRs were parked. Even over the general noise of everything, she could hear the voices of the others lift up as Ray approached, picking up her jacket from one chair.

She couldn’t hear what was being said, but by the tone of it and the laughter, it wasn’t very nice. Parry frowned. She and her friends teased each other a lot, and Rafe could be an outright asshole, but this wasn’t the same. Being tall for a girl and inherently shy, Parry had endured her fair share of bullying as a kid. She’d put it past her, but even now she could recognize bullies from a goddamn mile away.

Ray said something to them, her voice lost in the noise. There were more moans and mean comments- likely, they were badmouthing her for leaving early. Parry felt her anger lifting as Ray started toward the door, absently tying her jacket around her waist. Glancing back toward her own table and friends, Parry could see that Jaime and Jonas had returned from the restroom. Jaime still looked unsteady, half-draped over Jonas, but she was smiling the smile of the blissfully sotted. Jonas couldn’t see her from his vantage, but Rafe could.

Almost immediately, the big guy gestured at her and pointed toward the door, mouthing words with exaggerated motions. _Go. Follow. Her_.

Parry followed.

* * *

 

The Yelchin Confederation Flight Base was considered the top flight school on the continent. It was situated just two miles outside of Stodola, Massachusetts. While the Base had extensive amenities, alcohol was strictly forbidden within the grounds. If the trainees wanted a drink, they had to get a pass off-base and walk (or catch a passing truck) to the single bar in Stodola.

Getting an off-base pass wasn’t always easy, so the bar wasn’t usually crowded. Graduation night was an exception- every MR got an overnight pass on graduation night, and the bar was usually wall to wall.

As Parry stepped out into the midnight, late summer Massachusetts air, the temperature notably dropped several degrees. Combined with the fresh air and elbow room, it was a blessed relief. A few MRs and officers were lingering around outside. She ignored them and looked toward the dirt road that lead to Yelchin, quickly spotting Ray as she reached the shoulder of the road and started toward the base. She broke into a jog to catch up, falling into step beside the smaller MR as she reached her. Ray looked over at her with a surprised blink.

“Oh,” she said.

“Mind if I walk with you?” Parry asked. “I was about full up of that place too.”

Ray shrugged. “It’s a free road.”

“You ok?”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m fine,” she said lightly. “Just silly. I really don’t know why I even went there to begin with. I’m not superstitious. Of course I’m not going to die on my first mission just because I didn’t burn my throat with tequila.”

“Your…friends didn’t seem too happy that you were leaving.”

“I don’t know what I would call them, but friends doesn’t really apply,” Ray said. “They were upset I was leaving only because they were hoping to get me drunk.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Probably so they could laugh at me when I inevitably did something stupid.”

“Why would they-“

“I’d really rather not talk about them,” Ray said. “So. Parry. I can tell by that ever so faint accent of yours you don’t call Massachusetts home. Where are you from in the world?”

“Maine.”

“Ah, northerner.”

“Yeah. You?”

“California.”

“Nice. Did you always want to be a pilot?”

“No, for a while I wanted to be a fire truck.” Parry blinked at her, and laughed when Ray smiled. “Well, in my defense, I was two years old at the time. Did you want to be something odd when you were two?”

“I think I wanted to be a unicorn at some point. Not sure if I was two at the time.”

“A unicorn. Practical. I like it. Strong, fast, and you can stab people with your face.”

Parry laughed even harder. “That was definitely one of the appealing aspects, yes.”

Ray smiled. “You said that people have told you you’re an angel before?”

“Yes. Well, I mean, that’s my call sign. Angel.”

“What kind of angel?”

“Kind?”

“Well, yes. I mean, if they gave you your call sign meaning ‘guardian angel’, that would suggest you’re very protective over your squadron during a firefight. If they gave it to you meaning ‘angel of mercy’, then that would suggest you go for the disabling shot at enemy johnnies, not the kill. If it means something like Cherub-“

“Then I fly my tourney wearing a diaper and a sash?” Parry asked with a teasing grin.

Ray chuckled and shook her head. “No, it would mean you were kind,” she said gently.

Parry looked at her awkwardly a moment, and after a beat of silence Ray shrugged. “So, as you can see, the kind of angel is very important. Much can be gleaned from it.”

“And you want to glean much of me?”

Ray shrugged again. “I like to know the sort of person who walks me home.”

“We’re just happening to go to the same place at the same time,” Parry hedged.

“Oh,” Ray said, with a light smile. “I see. In that case, nevermind. You can remain a strange stranger.”

Parry returned the smile-she couldn’t seem to help it. “It’s actually after the angel of death,” she said. “What does that say about me?”

“That you’re a very good and precise combat pilot,” she said, and looked at her. “And still very kind.”

“Death is kind?” Parry asked.

“It can be, but they didn’t call you ‘Death’, did they? They called you ‘Angel’. Even if it is the angel of death, that’s significant.”

“You…have an interesting way of thinking,” Parry said.

“That’s one way to put it, I guess,” Ray replied. “What about you? What call sign did you get slapped with?”

“Going to see what you can figure out about me?” Ray asked.

“If I can.”

“Ripley.”

“Ripley?” Parry echoed. “Couldn’t be an easy one, could it?”

Ray just shrugged again, offering nothing more than an enigmatic smile. Parry’s brows knit as she tried to work through it, figure out what Ripley was supposed to mean.

“My sergeant’s call sign is Lobo, because his last name is Wolff. Well, your name is Ray Caruso. I don’t see how Ripley ties into that, so I doubt it’s based on just your name.”

“Go on.”

“Ripley…Ripley…hang on. Wasn’t there some kind of movie way back in the olden days? Some woman miner who fights these weird black alien things?”

“You’re thinking of Ellen Ripley from Alien.”

“You just knew that off the top of your head? That has to be two hundred years old or more.”

“You knew it too.”

“As a vague mention I heard once, a story. You knew her full name and the movie title.”

“I like old cinema, what can I say?”

“Still impressive. So, that means that you fight well on your own then…that you don’t back down from a challenge. You survive at any cost.”

Ray smiled again. There was something about that smile that Parry knew she could very easily become addicted too.

“That’s a very nice thought, but no.”

“No? She was a badass, wasn’t she? I remember she was supposed to be one of the first really iconic women heroes from early cinema.”

“She was, but I wasn’t given the name Ripley because of her.”

“You weren’t?”

“Nope.”

“Nothing to do with her at all?”

“Nope.”

“Damn it. Ok, lemme think…”

She was silent for a while longer, before she finally sighed in frustration. “I give up. I can’t think of a single other Ripley.”

Ray untied her uniform jacket from around her waist and began to pull it on. Now that they had cooled down from the heat of the bar, it was starting to get a bit chilly. As she did she started to talk.

“My classmates think I’m an idiot,” she said. Parry frowned and nearly interrupted. _How can they think you’re an idiot? Idiots just don’t get into Yelchin, and you seem damn smart to me!_

Instead she bit her tongue and remained silent. She sensed there was a bit more weight about what Ray was saying than she wanted to let on, and she had a feeling this wasn’t something she generally shared easily-certainly not with someone she had just met.

“They pegged me so right from the start,” she continued, fastening her jacket. “Pegged me as a simpleton, as an incompetent. At first it was just behind their hands but soon they got bold enough to stay it to my face. They would tell me I was going to wash out, that I shouldn’t even bother. During simulations they would goad me over headset, try and make me screw up my numbers.”

“And your sergeant allowed this?”

“Why shouldn’t she?” Ray asked, looking at her. “It was their problem, not mine. I didn’t care what they said. I knew it wasn’t true and I didn’t let it affect me. My sergeant knows that being a combat pilot means dealing with pressure. If I could keep my numbers up and keep my cool while being called names over my headset, then that said enough on my behalf.”

“I guess. Still doesn’t seem right.”

Ray smiled at her. “That’s because you are a decent human being, and kind.”

“I-I don’t know about that. I don’t think I’m different than anyone else…”

“You’re different than _they_ were,” she said, then shook her head. “Anyway. They kept trying to tag me with other call signs. ‘Pig’ lasted a bit- as in, ‘you’ll be a pilot the same day pigs fly!’”

“Fucking assholes.”

“My sergeant shot them down each time. I didn’t care. I would have accepted Pig as being my call sign. I’d have worn it proudly. It’s only an insult if you let it be. Anyway, they kept trying to make them stick, Sgt. Lamba kept shooting them down, absolutely refusing to let them designate that as my official. They got a bit upset over that. Your squad gives you your call sign, good or bad. They didn’t think she should have stopped them. Anyway, last week we were given our final flight scores-“

“Wait a second. You didn’t have a call sign until _last week_?”

“Not officially, no.”

Parry was flabbergasted. Mean spirited names aside, it was unheard of for someone in combat training not to have a call sign after their first month. Training lasted _two years_. That Ray had gone two years without her sergeant approving a call sign was ludicrous.

Even mean spirited classmates should have gotten the hint and come up with something at least neutral by then.

“So…you were given your final flight scores? You obviously did well enough to MR.”

“I got a two hundred,” Ray said.

Parry halted and caught her shoulder. “ _Two hundred_?”

“Yes.”

“Two ten is the highest score possible, and _that’s_ only been given out once!”

“Yes, to Merlin Killdare. I know.”

“And you got two _hundred_?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe it!”

Ray laughed. “That’s what my classmates said.”

“What did your sergeant say?”

Ripley’s eyes twinkled in the dark as she grinned that addicting grin.

“‘Believe it, or not.’”


	2. Last Day on Earth

The base was quiet, the guard on duty only half glancing at the security scanner as they passed through it in front of the pedestrian gate. The guard was only there as a failsafe anyway. Anyone without a military ID would have been DNA scanned and instantly recognized as not cleared by the security system. In a heartbeat, they’d find themselves trapped in a nearly solid metal container that could be flooded with sedative gas.

One didn’t sneak onto a military base without clearance if one had any brain cells in their head.

Though Yelchin was home to almost six hundred flight trainees at any given time, quite a few had gotten MR and were off-base. Those that remained were spread over nearly ten miles in a variety of barracks, rec halls, and other amenities. At this hour of the night, even without graduation, the grounds always looked mostly deserted.

They’d had a pleasant conversation on their walk…at least, Parry had enjoyed it, and she was hoping more and more that Ray was also enjoying it. She seemed to be. She kept smiling and laughing and seemed engaged. Parry found herself saying almost anything she could just to keep bringing that smile back.

As they got on base and neared the first bank of barracks, she found herself desperately trying to think up excuses not to part ways, but couldn’t think of one that didn’t sound in her head like a desperate come-on.

She was focused so much on it, in fact, that she didn’t notice she’d gone completely silent until Ray suddenly stopped. Jolted out of her thoughts, she blinked almost owlishly at the other woman.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Ray said, then jabbed a thumb at the barracks door nearby. “This is my stop.”

“Oh. Oh, you’re in A block. I’m…I’m clear over on G block.”

That explained why she’d never seen her before tonight. Their barracks were on opposite ends of the complex. They’d use different rec halls, different training floors, and different shops, and would be on completely different guard and flight rotation schedules.

“Then I guess this is goodbye for now,” Ray said with another one of her smiles, offering her hand. “It was very nice talking with you, Parry. I wish you every good fortune with your assignment.”

“It was nice talking to you, and same,” Parry replied, mentally berating herself already at how lame that must have sounded as she took Ray’s hand and shook it. “Take care of yourself. Stay safe out there.”

“Oh, nothing will happen to me,” Ray said. “I drank tequila, remember? I’m bullet-proof now.”

Parry laughed. “That’s right. The Gods of Superstition are appeased.”

“Indeed.” Ray nodded, then released her hand. Parry hadn’t even realized she’d still been hanging on to it. “Good night, Angel.”

“Good night, Ripley,” she said, then watched as she turned and walked into her barracks.

* * *

 

Parry jolted to consciousness some hours later as someone kicked her foot.

She’d gotten back to barracks, unsurprised to find she was the only one there. The others would likely not drag themselves in until dawn, and most would receive their assignments in the midst of a miserable hangover.

She’d only bothered to take off her boots, flopping back on her bunk like a limp doll with one arm draped over her eyes. She was still in that position when her foot was lightly hit with a knee, and she snorted awake immediately, staring bleary eyed up at the blob above her.

Though she didn’t normally drink, she hadn’t had nearly enough to give her a real hangover. Still, it remained she’d only gotten a couple of hours sleep. Even so, her training kicked in immediately. Seeing the blob was in sergeant browns she immediately surged to her feet and snapped to attention, saluting as she blinked the sleep from her eyes.

“Not bad, Angel,” Sgt. Wolff said, returning the salute. “You either hold your booze better than most or you didn’t have nearly enough fun last night.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, lowering her arm but remaining at attention.

“You’re not going to tell me which?”

“Probably not sir.”

He shook his head with a chuckle. “At ease. I have your orders.”

He pulled a folded data post from under his arm and offered it to her. She took it, opening it. The data post was little more than a thick membrane that mimicked heavy paper, but displayed like a computer monitor. As her thumb pressed the bottom edge, the information pertinent to her appeared, scrolling over the surface at the same time it encoded itself to the ident chip implanted in her thumb.

She read it over, then blinked, eyes going wide.

“Something wrong, Second Lieutenant?” Wolff asked. “You do not approve of your assignment?”

She looked at him. “No, sir, not…I mean, _yes_ , sir, of course I approve sir, I just…this has to be a mistake.”

“No mistake,” Wolff said, and smiled at her. “You have earned it.”

She looked back at the post, still unable to believe the words written there.

 

_2 nd Lt. Parry ‘Angel’ Mazurek,_

_You are to report to the TCP_ Houston _by 1100 hours Confed Standard Time on August the Nineteenth, Two Thousand, Two Hundred and Twelve for Wing assignment._

It was signed by Colonel Wright, who headed Yelchin’s flight trainee program.

“The TCP _Houston_ is the largest launch and supply platform in the Confed,” she heard herself say. “It’s part of the First Fleet, assigned to the front at Delta Sector.”

“That is correct.”

“Was this on your recommendation, sir?”

“I hardly had to recommend,” he replied. “Your tests and scores spoke for themselves. You are an outstanding pilot, Angel.”

“I-I don’t know what to say sir. To be part of the First Fleet…out on the Delta _front_ …”

“You _earned_ it,” he repeated. “Congratulations, Angel. You are a MR Second Lieutenant in the Confed Air and Space Forces and you are officially a graduate of this training program. There is a transport leaving the east tarmac at 09:00 that will take you to your assigned post. You have an hour to pack and say your goodbyes, then report to Colonel Serrano on the tarmac.”

She nodded, folding the post up and offering it back to him. As her thumb left the membrane, the data vanished and went dark, ready for the next set of orders to be passed on to the next MR. He took the post, tucked it back under his arm, then saluted again. “You are dismissed.”

She saluted back, her head spinning. He smiled one last time, then turned and walked away. She immediately went to her footlocker, pulling out her duffel.

First Fleet. Though Jonas had joked about it, Parry had never actually dreamed she’d be assigned to the First. It was every Confed pilot’s _dream_ to go to the First, fight with the best men and women and ships in the entire Confed.

_Zarold ‘Merlin’ Killdare serves in the First_ , she thought as she stuffed her few belongings almost absently into her duffel. _Merlin goddamned Killdare himself and his entire_ Wing.

Killdare wasn’t assigned to _Houston_ , of course. His Wing flew out of the flagship, the TCS _Londontown_. Even so, even being part of the same Fleet as the greatest legend in Confed history was more than she had ever dared dream of!

She packed and got her boots on in record time, fastening her uniform jacket and slapping her cap on her head before slinging the duffel over her shoulder.

The east tarmac was about two miles from her barracks. While she could easily have hopped on the automated complex transport and been there in two minutes, she chose to walk it. Her head was still reeling at the news, and she wanted a chance to let it sink it a bit better.

Jaime and the others had been nowhere in sight when she’d left the barracks. They had either already gotten their orders or hadn’t managed to drag themselves in from the bar yet. She hoped it was the former; if it was the latter, they would likely lose their MR status and be kicked right out of the program. The Confed understood the need for graduation night, but didn’t look kindly on pilots who couldn’t make it back to base on time for their assignments.

Still, she had hoped to see them if even for a few minutes. See where they were going, tell them goodbye, wish them luck. Now, unless she just happened to run into them along the way to the tarmac, her opportunity had been lost.

_The First Fleet. The First fucking Fleet._

Delta Sector was at the edge of Confed space, right before the ‘neutral zone’ of Border World territories (usually just referred to as ‘the Territories’)- a buffer of space only three solar systems wide that separated the Confed from the Kilrathi Empire. The First Fleet’s job was to guard the Delta Sector against Kilrathi strike forces or, God forbid, a full invasion. It was the hottest, most important strategic theatre of war there was.

The _Houston_ was the First Fleet’s TCP- an enormous, movable launch platform that basically equated to an entire Confed colony in space, with a colony’s population of personnel. The _Houston_ based the Fleet’s S &R, mechanics, and repair vessels. It had an infirmary large enough to hold over six thousand wounded. It was home to the Fleet’s brig and prison system. Confed Special Forces had their Fleet headquarters aboard. There were parks and recreation facilities, research and physics labs. Hell, the _Houston_ grew over half of the First Fleet’s food rations, and acted as a supply depot for raw medical and repair materials ferried in from all over the Confed.

The _Houston_ had its own compliment of fighter Wings whose job it was to protect the platform whether stationary or moving, escort ships to and from its docking bays, and provide security for the platform’s mobile jump gate (nicknamed ‘Junior’).

The _Houston_ was the very reason the First Fleet could maintain constant operations and keep Delta Front secure, and now…Parry was going to be a part of that effort.

As she neared the launch tarmac, she looked upward. Though it was still fairly early in the morning, the sky was an almost sonic blast of blue, without a cloud in sight.

_My assignment could last years_ , she thought. _Or the worst could happen. This could be the last I ever see of Earth, the last I look at blue sky, feel fresh air._

She hadn’t expected to feel sentimental about that fact. Ever since she was old enough to watch vids, she had wanted to go to space, be a combat pilot. It was what she was made for, and she had never doubted it.

Faced with actually leaving the planet of her birth, however, she realized she was going to miss it. She hadn’t expected that.

Trying to center herself again, she reached the launch tarmac and cleared through the security gate. Transports were coming and going, at least three parked and waiting to take MRs to their assignments. The guard checked her orders on his screen as she touched her thumb to the pad, then pointed her to the proper ship.

“Good luck out there,” he said with a nod and a salute, and passed her through.

The transport wasn’t terribly large, and over half of its size was taken up with the huge jump-focus engines which allowed it utilize the jump gates. It was standing open, waiting for passengers, and near the steps a base colonel that was likely Serrano was speaking with a familiar figure who stood with duffel in hand.

“Rafe?”  She grinned as she got near. The big guy squinted over at her from behind his mirrored sunglasses.

“Well, _you’re_ happy,” he said. “Must have gotten laid last night after all.”

“I’d really rather not hear of the exploits of MRs on graduation night,” the colonel said, and directed her pad toward Parry. “Orders?”

As she touched her thumb to the pad, her orders transferring onto it for the colonel to clear, Parry said to Rafe, “You got the First Fleet too?”

“Yeah, _Houston_ ,” he said. “Go figure.”

“You got _Houston_?” she said, looking at him. “So did I! What about Jaime and Jonas?”

“No idea about Jonas. Jaime got her orders right before I did. She’s going to a colony in Beta Sector.”

“That’s it, you’re clear,” the colonel said. “We’re just waiting on one more before launch.”

Parry shifted her duffle on her shoulder, focusing on Rafe. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the assignment. I never dreamed I’d actually get First Fleet.”

“Me neither,” he said.

“It’s not a surprise, your flight score was only three points below mine. You’re not excited about the assignment?”

“Oh, I’m excited,” he said. “I’ll be even more excited when I’m not completely hung over. I noticed you didn’t come back to the bar last night. I honestly didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Nothing happened! Jesus Rafe-“

“Don’t break my heart like that, princess. You at least kiss her?”

“I’m not going to just kiss some random stranger-“

“Did you get her name?”

“Yes, it was Ray-“

“Then she wasn’t a ‘random stranger’, was she?”

“You are unreal, you know that? Unreal.”

“ _Me?_ You’re the one that can barely even talk to a girl you find attractive, even half drunk on graduation night-“

“Just because I don’t want to jump in the sack with someone I hardly know isn’t-“

“Isn’t what? Proof you’re not human?”

“It’s perfectly human not to want to reduce something down to just meaningless physical activity!”

“I had to blackmail you to even go talk to her. Is _talking_ ‘meaningless physical activity?’”

“It is when I’m talking to _you_ ,” she said with a grin.

“Oh ha ha. Prude.”

“Lug nut.”

“Nun.”

“Scrag.”

A voice suddenly spoke up behind Parry. “Wrench.”

They both blinked and looked over with stunned surprise at the MR standing beside the colonel.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ray said as they stared. “I thought we were saying random nouns.”

“Thank God you shut them up,” the colonel said, offering her the pad. “Orders?”

Ray set her duffle down and pressed her thumb to the pad as Rafe and Parry exchanged looks, a slow smile suddenly spreading over the man’s face as a look of horror descended on Parry’s.

He turned away from her, toward Ray, and Parry half caught his arm with a weak, strangled whisper. _“Don’t!”_

“Hey, I’m Rafe Gorski,” he said, offering his hand toward Ray. She reached out and took it as the colonel checked the orders that had appeared on her screen.

“Ray Caruso, nice to meet you,” she said. He shook her hand, then jabbed a thumb toward Parry.

“I hear you already know Angel.”

“We’ve met,” Ray said, smiling in her direction. Parry managed to close her mouth and swallow.

“Hi again.”

“Hello. So since Parry didn’t tell me that she likes to get into odd one-word arguments with random strangers, I take it you two know each other already?”

“Same flight class. You got assigned First Fleet too, huh?” He gave Parry a meaningful look. “Imagine _that.”_

“Yes, the _Houston_ ,” Ray said.

“The _Houston_ as well!” Rafe smiled a smile that only made Parry more nervous. “Maybe we’ll get lucky enough to be in the same Wing.”

“Maybe,” Ray said cheerfully.

“Wouldn’t that be good, Parry? All three of us in the same Wing?” He asked, looking at his friend.

“That would be something, yes,” she said. Inside, she was cringing. She knew Rafe well enough to know plotting when she saw it, and the man wasn’t even remotely above embarrassing her if he wanted to.

“All right, all checked in,” the colonel said, clearing her pad. “On board you three. You’re on a schedule.”

Ray hauled up her duffle again. As she did, Rafe glanced quickly over at Parry, lowering his glasses just enough that she could see him wink at her, before he turned and headed up the stairs.

Internally, she groaned, seating her own duffle better on her shoulder.

“Well, he seems nice,” Ray said with a smile as they started up the steps after him. Despite her embarrassment and her worry over future embarrassments, Parry found herself responding to that smile. It was even more addictive in the sunlight.

* * *

 

They stowed their bags as they got into the passenger area of the transport. There were only six seats, and just the three of them. Parry got her bag locked down then moved to go sit over with Rafe, only to be met with a pointed glare.

“You try and sit with me and not her and I will make you regret it every minute of this trip,” he said in a low voice, pitched so only she could hear it.

She looked over to where Ray was stowing her bag, then back at him. “You’re such an ass,” she whispered.

“Yes, I’m such a terrible ass for making you go sit with a girl you like. I’ll try and live with the pain.”

Shaking her head, she turned and went back to where Ray had seated herself.

“Mind if I sit?”

“No, please, go ahead…but don’t you want to sit with your friend?”

“I’d like some actual _intelligent_ conversation on this trip,” she said, speaking more at Rafe than to Ray. He didn’t look around, but his hand shot into the air, middle finger firmly extended. Ray laughed.

Parry sat, buckling up as Ray took off her cap and ruffled a hand through her hair, smoothing it back before replacing the cap. “You nervous?” she asked Parry.

“I think I’m too excited still to be nervous,” Parry said. “Didn’t figure I’d get First Fleet.”

“Me neither. Karen- she’s one of my classmates, the one that tried to stick me with ‘Pig’- she overheard when I got my orders. I think her jaw hit the floor.”

Parry grinned. “’Believe it or not.’”

“Exactly,” Ray smiled, then looked forward as the helm door slid open. A woman in a flight suit stepped through, with short copper hair and a dusting of freckles. She had a face that smiled easily.

“Good morning. My name is Jennifer ‘Diamond’ Bastille. I’ll be handling our flight to the Front. It will take about an hour to hit the Alpha jump gate, and we’ll be transitioning directly to Junior in Delta Sector as soon as our jump path is clear. You will be on board Houston in plenty of time for duty report. Are there any questions?”

“Is this it? Just the three of us?” Rafe asked. Diamond nodded.

“For this transport, yes.”

“Sorry if it’s personal,” Ray piped up. “But are you related to Brigadier General Bastille?”

Diamond’s eyes shifted to her. “The Brigadier General is my mother,” she said. “You will be meeting her soon after arriving on _Houston_ \- she likes to meet all new recruits personally. Trust me, she will be intimately familiar with your flight scores, performance charts, and personnel history. She’s quite thorough. Any further questions? Very well. Have a good flight.”

She disappeared back into the helm, the door sliding shut. Rafe looked around at Parry and Ray. “Brigadier General Bastille?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” Parry asked. “C’mon Rafe. Nemesis?”

He blinked. “ _The_ Nemesis? The one that fought in the Battle of Houng Tai in 2192?”

“Yes,” Ray said. “She commands the _Houston_. You didn’t know that?”

“Wait wait wait. Really? _The_ Nemesis. The _real_ Nemesis.”

“Yes, Rafe,” Parry said. “The really _real_ Nemesis.”

“The really _real_ Nemesis is going to be our boss?”

“So it would seem.”

“Well fuck me sideways,” he said, astounded, as he turned and looked out his viewport. Ray lifted a brow and leaned over toward Parry, whispering in a low voice.

“That sounds _painful_.”

Parry hid her laugh behind her hand.


	3. Welcome to Houston

The flight through the solar system to the Alpha jump gate took only an hour, and it was about the fastest hour Parry could ever remember spending.

She’d been off world before, of course. Part of combat pilot training required actual vacuum training, and even as realistic as their sims were it was nothing compared to the real thing.

However, she had never been further than Jupiter orbit. While they would miss passing Mars and Jupiter today, both planets being elsewhere on their orbital ellipsis, they did get a spectacular view of Neptune and the small outpost platform that hovered just outside its rings.

The jump gate looked unimpressive as they approached it only a few minutes later. A big, dull colored hunk of metal, the gate rather resembled an old-fashioned capsule pill. Not technically a ship, it had no engines and could not really maneuver on its own. It was linked to another platform, the TCP _Terrahoga_ , which hovered close by. The _Terrahoga_ provided protection and maintenance for the gate, and if needed could snag it and lock it into its side for quick transport.

As they looked out on the _Terrahoga_ , Parry shook her head. “It looks enormous,” she said.

“Yeah, hard to believe the _Houston_ is almost ten times bigger,” Ray replied.

There was a wait for the jump gate, as there always was. It linked to every other gate in Confed territory- any traffic leaving or entering Sol for anywhere that was not literally right next door had to utilize the Alpha jump gate. They watched for a while as they hovered, waiting for their clearance signal. There was a green flash of light on the capsule each time the gate was opened and locked in. A ship would then pass by at specific coordinates and appear to vanish completely.

Parry understood the physics behind the gate, of course- any pilot did. The capsule was really just an energy focus- the gate itself was the wormhole it opened that allowed any ship flying through it to instantly arrive at another point in space without travelling through the space in between. The wormhole opening was not in visible light, so there was nothing to see but its effects. Pilot infrared, ladar, and energy sensors could detect it, however. With those, it looked like just a round shimmer, similar to heat waves rising off a hot road.

The jump gates made space travel feasible, but they also had their drawbacks. A ship had to have specialized jump focus engines to be able to even access an open wormhole, and those engines took up a lot of room (more than half of the transport they themselves were currently on). A gate could only connect to another gate- the wormhole would not form otherwise. They were incredibly expensive and time consuming to build. They relied on trillions of calculations that had to be exact each and every time so that the jump was possible, and sometimes things went wrong for no discernable reason. Though they were extremely rare, it still happened that a ship passed through an active gate and just never arrived on the other side. It was perhaps a trillion in one shot, but it did happen, and to this date no one had ever been able to figure out just why.

After about twenty minutes of watching ships vanish and the gate reset itself to the new destination, their view suddenly moved, the transport swinging into position.

“Guess we’re next,” Ray said. “You ever jumped before?”

“No,” Parry said. “You?”

“No.”

“I have. It’s nothing,” Rafe said, overhearing. “You won’t even notice the transition itself, things just change.”

“Change?” Ray asked.

“You’ll see. Watch out the window.”

They looked as the capsule flashed its green light. Their transport surged forward toward the invisible gate. Then, the capsule and the _Terrahoga_ vanished with a snap, like a switch had been thrown and just clicked them out of existence. At the same time, another capsule appeared in a different position. Behind it, the stars were different. A distant gas giant, far enough away that a quarter pressed to the window would have covered it, had clicked into being. The far lights of a variety of ships now hovered where they hadn’t before.

That was it.  Just that fast, they had left the Sol system and were now hundreds of thousands of light years away in Delta Sector, in the midst of the First Fleet.

“Transition complete,” Diamond’s voice spoke from the com near the door. “We are now on final approach to TCP _Houston_.”

“I don’t see it,” Parry said, leaning over more as she searched the view.

“You’re on the wrong side,” Rafe said, looking over at them. “Over here.”

She and Ray both quickly unbuckled and crossed the little aisle to the other set of seats that Rafe had taken over, looking out the port side windows. Parry’s eyes went wide.

“Holy fuck…”

The TCP _Houston_ was just below them, almost filling their view on the port. _Massive_ didn’t do it justice. The top level of the station was curved in a slightly flattened dome that alone had to be nearly a hundred square kilometers across. It glistened with millions of solar collectors, radiation shields, and communications arrays. Below the first level, the other levels were perfect squares, each slightly offset from the other until the shape of the platform almost formed a spiral, most of which was invisible from their vantage.

Scale was, at first, almost impossible to determine, until she caught sight of a destroyer moving in toward the station at one of the maintenance docks. The destroyer would be easily twenty times the size of their transport-against the platform, it looked like a gnat.

“The upper level under the solar collectors will be the park and farmland,” Ray said. “They have to shield it of course, this is a war zone and a big hydroponics dome would be a massive weak spot, but they’ll have reflectors that pipe the proper light wavelengths into the areas with vegetation.”

Rafe gave her an odd look, but said nothing as he returned his eyes to the viewport. All three remained in silence, watching the station quickly grow even larger and closer as they aimed for one of the docking bays. Only when they passed into the bay did they move away from the windows and go to gather their things.

Diamond appeared out of the helm a moment later, nodding to them. “Bay is a bit crowded, we’ve got recruits coming in from all over the Confed. Someone will check your orders as soon as you disembark. Good luck out there, pilots.”

Shouldering her duffle again, Parry took a deep breath against the nerves now tightening her stomach. This was what she had worked for all her life…getting _here._

_Now I just need to make sure I don’t fuck it up somehow._

The bay was indeed crowded. Hundreds of uniforms were emerging from dozens of transports, all with duffels over their shoulders. The noise of conversation made a dull, echoing roar. As they stepped down from their own transport, Parry looked out on the crowd. Some were young, newly MR’d pilots like themselves, no doubt. Others were clearly vets.

_Transfers from other parts of the Confed, reassigns...if any front in this war would have high turnover, it would be Delta._

A colonel was standing next to the stairs. He held out a pad to each of them in turn, checking their orders. Ray was the last, and as her information came up he squinted at her oddly before nodding.

“You’re all clear. Follow the crowd for duty report.”

“What was that about?” Rafe asked as they joined the flow of the other pilots across the bay. Ray was looking around, and it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her.

“Hmm? What was what?”

“He gave you a funny look.”

“Did he?”

“You didn’t notice?”

“No. I don’t know why he would.”

“It’s probably your flight score,” Parry said. “Not many get that high, I’m sure.”

“What? What was your flight score?” Rafe asked.

“Two hundred,” Ray replied. He stared.

“You got a _two hundred_? No wonder you got _Houston_.”

“You got _Houston_ too,” she pointed out, and resumed her looking around. Rafe stared at Parry, who shrugged.

As the crowd entered the far doors it tightened a little, flowing into a wide corridor then nearly going to a standstill. The bulk of the crowd was going to the right, being directed by personnel, but as they neared the juncture Parry caught sight of a colonel scrutinizing the group, occasionally gesturing someone out of it, speaking to them briefly, then pointing them to the left.

Something about the colonel was familiar, but Parry couldn’t remember ever having seen her before. She was in her forties, easily, with black hair had only started to hint toward gray. Her eyes appeared to be silver- combined with some faint white scars around them that became noticeable as they got closer, Parry concluded she’d had ocular implants put in to repair an injury.

Then, those silver eyes landed on them, and the colonel gestured. “You three. Come here.”

Rafe, Parry, and Ray exchanged looks, then stepped out of the crowd over to where the colonel was standing. As they tossed off salutes, she almost absently returned them.

“You three are from Yelchin? Mazurek, Caruso, Gorski if I remember right?”

“Yes ma’am,” Rafe said.

“Leave your duffels here for now, they’ll be taken care of. I want you three to go this way. Take a right at the end of the hall, go inside, and take a seat.”

She pointed to the left. Confused, the three left their bags with a small stack of others, then headed toward the left. As the noise of the crowd died, Ray looked back and then leaned toward Parry.

“Do you know who that was?”

“She looked a bit familiar but I couldn’t place it,” Parry said.

“That was Diane Rochester. That was _Shadow._ ”

“Merlin Killdare’s _wingman_ Shadow?”

“Yes!”

“Jesus fuck, do you know _everyone_ in the Confed?” Rafe asked.

“Yes, all of them,” Ray said dryly. “I send them Christmas cards every year.”

“Why would they have one of Alpha Wing directing recruit traffic?” Parry asked. “For that matter, why did _we_ get pulled out?”

“I suspect they’ll tell us at some point,” Rafe said, as they reached the end of the hall and turned right. A door was standing open, and inside they could see a small conference room where others were already seated. As they went in and sat down, the others looked at them. From their expressions it was clear they had no more of an idea what was going on than anyone else.

At the front of the conference room was a small podium and a door. Near the front row of seats, another MR was standing, a young man, silently regarding the room. 

Almost immediately upon sitting down, an MR in the row in front of them turned around in his seat and thrust his hand at Parry. His hair was wild and a rather bright shade of red. “Hey, Marty,” he said. “I mean, that’s me, not you. Obviously. Do you know what’s going on?”

“Parry,” she said, taking the hand. He offered it to Ray and then to Rafe, both of whom introduced themselves. “And no, no idea.”

“It’s weird isn’t it? I wonder what we did wrong.”

“We haven’t been here long enough to do something wrong,” Ray said.

“Well, that may be true for most people, but I tend to get up to mischief pretty quick,” he said. “Oh, we got more now.”

Parry turned to see two more MRs enter the room, self-consciously looking for seats. Marty immediately zeroed in on them, lifting his voice. “Hey, guys…you know what’s up?”

“No clue,” the taller of the two said.

“Where you from?”

“Jefferson.”

“Jefferson huh? You guys?” he looked back at Parry and her two friends.

“Yelchin,” she said.

“Yelchin, nice. Me and Rabbit are from Boriston.” He jabbed a thumb toward the quiet young man sitting beside him. “Huh. All new MRs. No vets in here.”

His eyes shifted again as someone new came in, then he quickly turned back around in his seat. Shadow touched the pad next to the door, closing it before heading down the aisle toward the front. Everyone fell quiet as she spoke briefly and quietly with the MR who had not seated himself. As the door near the podium opened she immediate looked at the room and barked.

“Attention! General on deck!”

Almost as one, the entire room got to their feet, immediately snapping to attention and saluting as the Brigadier General entered.

Parry’s first thought as Helen Bastille came in was that she looked very much like her daughter. They were of a height, with the same shade of ginger hair cut to almost the same length. The General’s was starting to strongly go gray, however, and lines had started to sink in at the corners of her mouth and eyes. As she reached the podium she gave a quick but efficient salute, nodded to Rochester, and then to them.

“At ease,” she said, her voice noticeably touched with French. “Be seated.”

As they sat down, her keen eyes panned over them. “I am Brigadier General Helen ‘Nemesis’ Bastille, in command of the TCP _Houston_ \- your new assignment. This is Colonel Diane ‘Shadow’ Rochester of the First Fleet’s SFT Alpha Wing stationed on the TCS _Londontown._ ”

She glanced over at Shadow, who nodded toward them ever so faintly. Then Bastille tucked her hands behind her back and straightened.

“Starting from my left, I want you to each stand, give your rank and name, followed by your callsign and graduation academy. Proceed.”

The first MR at Bastille’s left rose to her feet. She was small, her light, mouse brown hair styled in a pixie cut. “Second Lieutenant Judith Ferry,” she said. “ _Tinkerbell._ Johannesburg.”

She sat and the young man sitting beside Marty stood up. “Second Lieutenant Jason Maduri. _Rabbit_. Boriston.”

Marty stood as Jason sat down. “Second Lieutenant Martin Cox. _Hobby_. Boriston.”

Rafe got to his feet. “Second Lieutenant Rafael Gorski. _Hammer_. Yelchin.”

Parry rose. “Second Lieutenant Parry Mazurek. _Angel_. Yelchin.”

Bastille was looking intently at each MR as they rose and spoke. When her eyes landed on Parry she felt like a mouse that had just been spotted by an eagle. It was a slightly disconcerting feeling.

As Parry sat down and Ray went to get up, her hand landed briefly on Parry’s- whether by accident or design, Parry couldn’t tell, but a sudden flush of heat over her cheeks made her hope desperately she wasn’t blushing.

“Second Lieutenant Rayna Caruso,” she said. “ _Ripley_. Yelchin.”

Bastille’s eyes measured her, then moved on as the next MR stood, this one a stunningly attractive young woman with skin that looked carved of ebony, and very close-cropped hair. “Second Lieutenant Constansi Jainaba. _Siren_. Johannesburg.”

As she sat, the final two recruits who had entered just before Rochester stood up and gave their introductions.

“Second Lieutenant Hank Harper. _Gameshow_. Jefferson.”

“Second Lieutenant William Temple. _Pagan_. Jefferson.”

Bastille nodded, then turned her eyes to the silent MR who was still standing near the front. As she looked at him, he straightened to attention and cleared his throat.

“First Lieutenant Jondell Killdare,” he said. “ _Reaper_. Phoebus.”

In front of them, Marty made a muffled sound of surprise before the name clicked with Parry. She lifted her eyebrows, looking at the MR.

_Killdare?_

“Very well,” Bastille said, then looked at the room in general again. “Each of you was offered this assignment at _Houston_ on recommendation from the heads of the Confed’s top rated training programs. You each represent the highest flight scores from those programs and your training officers believe there is something within each of you that makes you especially suited for this assignment.  You will notice there are ten of you in this room. The astute of you will also have deduced that there are ten fighters to each combat Wing that flies on the front. You ten have been selected for a tactical combat Wing designated special forces, codenamed _Rho_.”

“ _Special forces_?” Parry heard Rafe whisper. “We’re not special forces!”

As if she’d overheard him, Bastille said, “We are well aware that you have received no special forces training. That is why you have been assigned to the TCP _Houston_. For the next fifty two weeks, you will be under an intensive program commanded by Colonel Rochester and other veterans of the Special Forces Tactic Wings of this Fleet. Once that training is complete Rho will be available for various SFT missions both on the front, in the Territories, and potentially within Kilrathi space as well.”

Parry could feel each heartbeat echoing through her chest. Special Forces. Strike tactics in enemy space. _Your training officers believe there is something within each of you that makes you especially suited for this assignment._

What? What could she possibly have demonstrated during training that would make them think she was suited for special forces combat? She was a damn good pilot, sure, but it took more than just good piloting. Skills and talents to make special forces were rare, and she couldn’t think of a single one of them that she herself possessed that was any different than any other combat pilot.

_There has to be a mistake_.

Bastille had that measuring, hawk-eyed gaze again, regarding each of them. “Again, you will notice that there are only ten of you. You are not vying for a slot in this program. You are not competing against each other for this opportunity. It is yours. The nine others in this room are your Wing. You will learn to fight together, work together, think as one unit. If you fail, they fail. As you speak to each other in the next few days you will also discover another interesting item you all share in common.”

Her eyes sharpened yet more. “You all have no family outside of this room. It is that way on purpose. Your Wing is your family. Those seated around you now, they are your brothers and sisters. You have no ties to anything outside of the Confed and outside of this Wing.”

She straightened slightly. “In the entirety of the Confed there are only seventeen SFT Wings in operation. You will be the eighteenth. Lastly, like all other assignments in the Confed your inclusion in this program is not voluntary. This is your assignment, this is where you are needed, this is where your skills will best be utilized in defense of your planet and your species. If you wish to be reassigned or transferred you may put in for such, but I will consider only the most unique and pressing of circumstances to grant such a transfer. The human race is at war, ladies and gentlemen. You are in the Confed. You will fight and if necessary die for the preservation of everything that is _us_. And you will do your people proud, of that I have no doubts. Colonel, First Lieutenant. I turn this over to you.”

“On your feet!” Rochester ordered, and the room rose again as Bastille stepped away from the podium and saluted them. As one, they saluted in return.

After she had gone, Shadow ordered them to sit as well, then pointed toward Reaper.

“First Lieutenant Killdare has been assigned as Wing Commander of Rho Wing,” she said. “Myself and the other SFT Wing pilots will supervise your progress and set up your training schedule, however you will report to Killdare as your commanding officer. He will report to us, we will report to Bastille. Lieutenant.”

“Thank you Colonel,” he said, and turned to face them. “Our training begins in the morning. You will receive your bunk room assignments and schedule in short order. The _Houston_ has enough room for solitary bunks within barracks but they remain a cot and a pot. Showers and dining are communal, and you will have the rest of today to familiarize yourself with the station facilities. You will have clearance to all areas pertinent to the combat Wings of this station. Our day will begin early. We will meet tomorrow at 0430 on the flight deck. One benefit of SFT is we get access to the cutting edge fighter tech but they will differ from the training scrags and even full tourneys you’ve piloted before now. We will do combat exercises tomorrow morning to help familiarize you with the new ship designs and with each other’s fighting strengths and weaknesses. I will evaluate how you fly together and assign you your wingmen accordingly, as well as appoint one of my own. Are there any questions?”

Parry had about a million of them running through her head, but none she dared articulate. Not here, anyway. When no hands were raised, he nodded.

“Very well. Good luck and good afternoon. Wing dismissed.”


End file.
